


A Curiosity

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Crimes & Criminals, Discussion Of Murder, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse is a serial killer; Enjolras is the leader of les Amis. They have a conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> I should note that I emphatically do not believe Enjolras to have antisocial personality disorder; the Brick would in fact prove quite the opposite to be true in many regards. Still, some traits line up and this was something I wanted to write as I found that fact intriguing.
> 
> I really have no idea what this is.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: if you recognize it, I most likely do not own it. Thus is my life.

They were evenly matched to the point of being disturbing, light and darkness both with perfectly coiffed hair. The darkness, Montparnasse, sipped from his glass of scotch, his dark eyes examining the other from beneath furtive dark eyebrows, one perfectly manicured nail tapping against the glass. The other, Enjolras, embodiment of light, ran an impatient hand through his halo of blond curls, his blue eyes icy as he regarded Montparnasse with something close to hostility, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity there as well.

They were both criminals, both wanted by the law, for markedly different reasons. Montparnasse was suspected of numerous crimes ranging from petty larceny to murder (and the truth of his crimes would shock some of even the most hardened police officers). Enjolras was wanted for everything from inciting civil unrest to domestic terrorism and treason (the latter of which were overblown to say the least).

One hoped to kill none but would kill as many as needed in the pursuit of liberty, equality, and justice. One hoped to kill everyone but necessity had forced him to kill only a few.

At least, until now.

Montparnasse leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering, and asked Enjolras in a light, lilting voice, “Are you sure that I can’t get you a drink?”

Enjolras’s expression did not change, and he shook his head just slightly. “No,” he said, his voice cold and crisp and full of impatience and a desire to get to the matter at hand as his eyes darted around the room briefly. They were at Montparnasse’s, which was not what Enjolras would have preferred: neutral ground was always best but here, here Montparnasse had the upper hand, and were Enjolras not so concerned with why he was here, he would have left long ago or avoided coming in the first place. “No, thank you.”

“Ever polite, aren’t you,” Montparnasse observed, setting his drink down as he looked carefully at Enjolras. “I imagine it’s a relic of your upbringing, bred into you and reinforced every day as you grew up. Did your father beat you when you mouthed off? Did your mother scream and cry at you?” He tapped his fingers against his chin, smirking slightly as he sneered, “Oh, no, of course not, not a pretty little rich boy from a pretty little rich family. But did your  _nanny_  ever punish you?”

The only reaction Enjolras had was a slight narrowing of his eyes. “So you know of my background,” he acknowledged. “Which apparently means you know my real identity, who I really am, which puts you a step ahead of the police, at the very least. Which, I suppose, to put us on even footing, means that I should tell you know who you are, as well.” A note of warning crept into his tone as he added, “As do my friends.”

Montparnasse’s smirk did not falter. “You don’t have any friends. You have allies, comrades. Not friends.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed slightly. “I have the best friends that any could ever ask for,” he said, coldly. “They would give their lives for me and I for them.”

Montparnasse’s smile widened. “You would give your life for theirs in service of the cause. They would give their lives for you regardless. And probably will, before the end.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, do you ever feel  _guilt_  over bringing about their inevitable deaths?”

“Do you ever feel guilt for those who you have murdered?” Enjolras countered, though something in his face was troubled. “Do you feel guilty for murdering a friend of mine?”

At last, they had reached the reason for this terse meeting, for this mockery of civility that both were exercising, and Montparnasse sat back in his chair, his expression turning contemplative. “I do not,” he admitted easily. “It got me what I wanted, after all: a meeting with you.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed and he took a moment to respond, a muscle working in his jaw. “All that, for a meeting with me?” he asked, lightly. “What did I do to deserve such an honor?”

Montparnasse propped his hand on his chin and stared openly at Enjolras. “You…you are a  _curiosity_ ,” Montparnasse told him. “You proclaim to be full of such high ideals — yes, even one such as myself would have to be blind not to see your likeness splashed across television and newspapers as you lead your little crusade against the powers that be — and yet you would break the oldest social norm and kill those who stand in your way, would you not?” He shook his head. “As I said, a curiosity.”

Enjolras frowned and when he spoke next, it was with words backed with steel. “I would kill only those who bear arms against a peaceful population, and even then, only when all nonviolent means had failed.”

“Ah.” For a brief moment, Montparnasse sounded disappointed. “So you’re not a sociopath.”

“Why would you care?” Enjolras shot back, his temper getting the best of him. “So you could have met someone like you?”

Raising an eyebrow, Montparnasse told him mildly, “A sociopath would never admit to being a sociopath.” He picked up his drink and took a sip before continuing, “It is true that in my police file, I have been listed as having narcissistic antisocial personality disorder, and I was curious to find another suspected as such, to compare behaviors. I was curious, you see. And bored.” He shrugged. “I should perhaps alert the police that they’ve profiled you all wrong.”

There was a long moment before Enjolras could bring himself to speak again. “So you murdered one of my companions because you were bored?” Enjolras’s voice was calm, but the calm was belied by the barely restrained fury in his expression and in the clenching of his fist.

Montparnasse shrugged again. “It brought you here, did it not?” He leaned forward, examining Enjolras carefully. “And why did you come here, Enjolras? Why put yourself in a vulnerable position, knowing that I would have the upper hand? What did you hope to gain by coming here today, by meeting me?”

Enjolras shrugged as well. “You killed a friend of the Cause. I wanted answers.”

“I’ve killed many people.”

“Not that many. Four, by our count. Five, if you count my friend, which I do not, as it deviates from your previous pattern.”

So they  _had_  done their research. Montparnasse felt something coil in the pit of his stomach, something he had not felt in a long time. It was not fear, or guilt — what use did he have of those? It was  _excitement_. Perhaps he had now found a worthy adversary. “Would you like me to make it five?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him and told him coolly, “I’m not really your type. You prey on the weak, and I somehow doubt you could find it in yourself to kill someone like me who so  _fascinates_  you. You’d be better off letting me go so that you could continue to observe me.” He spread his arms wide. “So tell me, did I meet your expectations?”

“Sadly, no,” Montparnasse said, without a trace of disappointment in his tone. “You are, I fear, as every other person that I have met: utterly boring. And yet…” He trailed off, tapping his finger contemplatively against his chin. “And yet I wonder if you are really as good as you’ve led people to believe. Certainly your words inspire others, but you lead them into danger with little thought for yourself or them. You work for the rights of people, but by flagrantly disobeying the laws of society. And you have not denied that your friends are little more than allies.”

Looking down, Enjolras shook his head. “My friends are the most important thing to me—” he started, his voice low, but Montparnasse shook his head and chuckled.

“Your friends are only important insomuch as they are the building blocks of your cause. You surround yourself with devoted followers not because you feel for them, not because you  _love_  them, but because they are useful to you.” He waved a dismissive hand at Enjolras’s attempted retort and said, almost impatiently, “Oh, yes, one or two may be more than that, individuals you have come to rely on, but you don’t join them the way they join others in their revelry. Your reliance on them does not extend beyond the cause.” He propped his chin on his hand and narrowed his eyes as he stared at Enjolras. “As I said, you are a curiosity. Not a full sociopath, to be sure, but nor yet a quote/unquote ‘normal’ human.” He paused, then added, “You and I could learn much from each other, I think.”

Enjolras shook his head again, suddenly weary. “Are we done here?” he asked. “As I believe we’ve established you are not going to kill me? Can we end this charade now?”

Inclining his head slightly, Montparnasse said easily, “We are almost done here. There’s just one more thing.” He leaned forward slightly. “What about Grantaire?”

Enjolras stilled slightly. “What about Grantaire?” he asked, a touch impatient.

Montparnasse regarded him carefully. “He’s an anomaly.”

"How is he anomalous? He is one of the cause as much as any."

Now Montparnasse smiled coldly. “Wrong. He is neither part of the cause nor even useful to it, yet you keep him around, tolerate his presence where surely it must only be a liability, because of his drinking and everything else. The question is, of course, why.”

Enjolras’s lip curled. “Just because his uses are not apparent to you does not mean they do not exist.”

Montparnasse’s smile widened. “Oh, his use is apparent.” From his inside jacket pocket he pulled a stack of photos, carelessly tossing them onto the table. “Clearly, whatever his use or lack thereof to the cause, he is useful to  _you_.”

Leaning forward, Enjolras flipped quickly through the photos, which were all variations of the same thing: Enjolras and Grantaire out at dinner, Enjolras and Grantaire walking hand in hand, Enjolras and Grantaire kissing in front of their apartment building, Enjolras and Grantaire curled up on the couch together… Enjolras’s hand clenched around the photos, crumpling them within his grip. “Where did you get these?” he asked, his voice deathly quiet.

"Ah." Montparnasse sounded satisfied. "So you  _do_  feel.” Now he leaned forward, his smile turning feral. “Tell me, what bothers you more: that I know about you and him, or that I can get to him this easily?”

Before the word had completely left Montparnasse’s mouth, Enjolras had reached out, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him out of his chair, slamming him against the wall. Despite the flare of fury in his eyes, his voice was calm as he told Montparnasse, “If you hurt him—”

"What, you’ll kill me?" Montparnasse asked, amused. "But that won’t change anything. He’ll still be dead, and I will go to my grave laughing."

Enjolras released his grip on Montparnasse’s collar. “Oh no,” he said, pleasantly. “No, I won’t kill you. I will, however, frame someone for his murder, for all the murders you’ve committed.”

Montparnasse’s smile slipped slightly. “And why in the world would you do that?”

"Oh, come now," Enjolras said, his eyes glittering savagely. "You want recognition. Anyone who commits this level of depravity wants to be remembered for it, feared for it, immortalized in its horrors." He leaned in, eyes blazing, and hissed, "I will take the only thing that you care about away from you, and  _then_  I will kill you.”

Montparnasse stared at Enjolras with dark, calculating eyes. “I could kill you now,” he said abruptly. “Kill you before your precious revolution. Leave your lover to sob over your tombstone as the world slowly forgets you ever existed.”

Enjolras smiled and slowly backed away. “Ah, but others would rise to take my place. My death would only spur the cause forward, bring those on the fence to our side.” He bent and grabbed his coat, slipping it on, and when he straightened, he met Montparnasse’s gaze squarely. “But will the world remember you when you fall?”

When Montparnasse just stared at him, Enjolras swept the crumpled photos off the table and pocketed them, and when he spoke next, all the forced pleasantry was gone, replaced by steely resolve. “Keep Grantaire out of this.”

Then he was gone, and Montparnasse walked back to the table on shaky legs, a strange look on his face as he reached for his drink with trembling fingers. Enjolras most certainly was a curiosity, and one that Montparnasse was not done investigating, no matter how many he had to kill to get to him.


End file.
